Apr 17, 2010 12:31
Behind a slow driver, can’t make it out. Take your time to find a nice beat
or a voice in the darkness, cowfields narrated by Ira Glass, Jadabumrad.
It takes too long to realize you missed a turn; some sign went unread.
Whole cities are closed to you now. Take a moment to mourn, then move on.
Losing your sense of destination is not the same as being lost
exactly. Make your losses into constellations and navigate by the stars.
Really you need not know how. Sitting in the backseat of your own car,
watching it drift, looking for the kind of road you’d recognize. No highways:
your type can’t take it. You prefer the roads be winding, but the setting has to match:
pretty people, unkempt gardens, vegan dinners cooking in houses with
too many roommates, lying to the landlord, saving up for the ticket or the whales.
This is it, where home is a fleeting thing, where the ground is as impermanent
as the sky; they speak your language here, they’ll give you some directions:
First kiss to the right and straight on til morning, then a left near daybreak or
nightfall. You’ll see some underbrush ahead of you, or a city, or a road.